in its cradle by the hearth, smiling while it dreamed. Margot spun at her wheel. Reine Allix sat by the fire, seldom lifting her head from her long knitting-needles, except to cast a look on her grandson or at the sleeping child. The little wooden shutter of the house was closed. Some winter roses bloomed in a pot beneath the little crucifix. Bernadou's flute lay on a shelf: he had not had heart enough to play it since the news of the war had come.
Suddenly a great sobbing cry rose without—the cry of many voices, all raised in woe together.
Bernadou rose, took his musket in his hand, undid his door, and looked out. All the people were turned out into the street, and the women, loudly lamenting, beat their breasts and strained their children to their bosoms.
There was a sullen red light in the sky to the eastward, and on the wind a low, hollow roar stole to them.
"What is it?" he asked.
"The Prussians are on us!" answered twenty voices in one accord. "That red glare is the town burning."
Then they were all still—a stillness that was more horrible than their lamentations.
Reine Allix came and stood by her grandson.
